


Get a Room

by PrettyArbitrary



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mycroft routed, They're going to need pliers to get that knife out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-07
Updated: 2011-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-27 01:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/290112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some things a man doesn't want to know about his brother, no matter how fond he is of spy cameras.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One day I'll write something in this fandom that isn't prompted on the [kink meme.](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/10852.html?thread=53623652#t53623652) Today is not that day.
> 
> This might've sat half-finished on my hard drive till doomsday if Random_Nexus hadn't dared me to write fluff. She didn't believe I could do cute. So now you know who to blame. ^_^

John wasn’t thinking about the previous night when Mycroft knocked on the door.

Well. To be fair, he’d been thinking about it less than a minute earlier, and most likely would again within the next two minutes, with the way he and Sherlock were pressed together from shoulder to elbow and hip to calf. But they were sitting together on the sofa, sharing a medical article on a study about residual toxins in a new line of lipid-reduction drugs. It was all perfectly innocuous. The sitting room door was even open.

So when Mycroft didn’t actually enter upon John’s welcoming gesture, it took him a moment to realize why the elder Holmes had frozen at the threshold. The suspiciously blank look on his face helped, as did the way his eyes kept flicking between the flat’s two occupants.

Heat rose in John’s cheeks. Trust a Holmes to spot all the embarrassing details.

John rose, searching for some politeness to defuse the awkward moment like a mature adult, but Sherlock beat him to it, stepping up behind John to wind his arms around the shorter man. “Still such a prude, Mycroft. Three times, in point of fact. Each.”

The unbearable smugness in Sherlock’s voice would’ve been humiliation enough. John suspected his face had just gone the same shade as Mycroft’s had just turned. It wasn’t enough to stop himself from leaning into it when Sherlock bit down delicately on his ear.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

John’s eyes snapped back open. “I’m so sorry. Um.” He pulled free of Sherlock’s grip and shoved him toward the sofa with a quelling glare. _Behave yourself for company._ The narrow-eyed haughtiness he got back wasn’t especially reassuring. “We. Ah. Here, why don’t I make some tea and you can tell us what’s brought you to visit.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Mycroft pulled himself up a little, an invisible cloak of composure falling around him, and walked over to sit in John’s chair. “I have a case I thought Sherlock might be interested in.”

“Mmmm, no,” Sherlock drawled. “I’m engaged in a _study_ at the moment that I can’t be disturbed from.” His eyes traced blatantly over John’s body with a smile so toothy that John’s gun hand twitched.

Mycroft’s game face apparently faltered in the face of humiliating social debacle, because he was looking a bit tight-eyed again. John felt his teeth grind. “Sherlock! Leave your brother alone, will you?”

“Gladly! Only he persists in turning up on my doorstep despite my efforts.”

John passed Mycroft his tea and a commisserating look, then leaned against the mantel—across the room from Sherlock—with his own cup. “Go on, Mycroft. _I’m_ listening.” He didn’t even glance in Sherlock’s direction when he said it. An indignant huff sounded from the sofa.

Mycroft nodded to John, playing along with the conceit. “One of my people has gone missing, along with several hundred thousand pounds from the budget. On the surface, a case of embezzlement. However, certain actions he took the day before he vanished and a pen left on his desk lead me to believe that answer is too simple.”

“Pen?” John asked. Sherlock’s eyes burned into him with the heat of a small, predatory sun. He remembered what they said about tigers. Never meet their eyes or it’s all over.

“Yes, a pen left in his desk bearing the logo of an expensive resort in Majorca. Subtly played, but clearly planted nevertheless. The logo had been worn off in a pattern denoting right-handed use, and our gentleman is left-handed.”

Incensed at being ignored, the younger Holmes flung himself to his feet to loom over John, who stared up at him forbiddingly.

The incipient mayhem in his expression must’ve penetrated, because instead of grabbing him again, Sherlock leaned down to whisper in his ear, just a bit too loud to keep it between themselves, “Bent backwards over the kitchen table in the midst of my experiments.”

John’s breath stuttered.

“Oh for god’s sake,” Mycroft growled from behind Sherlock, one hand over his eyes.

“Come now, Mycroft.” Sherlock took a step to the side so he could bestow a shark’s smile on his brother without yielding his annexation of John’s personal space. “It’s only sex.” He purred that last into John’s ear with enough heat to boil blood.

Face gone brick-red again, Mycroft glowered up at them from between his fingers. “I had noticed.”

“Sherlock,” John said calmly, “if you keep trying to use me to humiliate Mycroft into leaving, I will remove one of your kidneys with a fork.”

“Hmmm, that would require holding me down on my stomach. It’s a step in the right direction.” John gaped, impressed despite himself by Sherlock’s remarkable leer. Nothing that sleazy should be that attractive. He shook himself like a dog and tried to step backwards, but the only place to go was into the fireplace.

It was worth a moment’s thought anyway.

“The letter knife is _right here,_ ” he pointed out sweetly instead.

Sherlock pulled it out of the mantel and studied it thoughtfully. “It’s early days yet, but I should note that I would very much like to cut you sometime.”

The ensuing silence held that absoluteness normally only heard at weddings and cancer diagnoses. John reeled under the hormones hammering into his bloodstream. Mycroft reeled under the unwanted images slamming into his head. The tall wanker beamed at them both.

After that ice age of a moment thawed out, Mycroft stood up, pulled the knife out of Sherlock’s hand, and drove it back into the mantel. It was going to be a beast to get out. He put far more force into it than necessary.

“Why don’t I come back later,” he asked John with a focused cheer that froze Sherlock out completely, “when you’re less occupied?”

John had a sibling. He recognized a well-played headgame when he saw one. On any other day he’d have given odds that it would’ve worked.

Today John jumped as a hand landed on his arse. “You’ll find I plan to _occupy_ John for the foreseeable future.” Those fingers spread and flexed in a way that made very clear exactly what would be getting _occupied_. John would’ve hit him if he weren’t so busy short-circuiting.

Check and mate. Mycroft beat a hasty retreat. There were some things a man didn’t want to know about his relatives no matter how fond he was of spy cameras. One of those things was the precise details of how his brother and brother’s partner coped with a five inch height difference when having sex against a wall.


	2. Coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why do tags to my own stories keep happening to me? I think they're done and then I get sneak-attacked by drabbles.
> 
> Because someone said, "Haha now I want to see casefic where Sherlock's all handsy while he's deducing." And my brain snickered and went there.

"Look, John!" Sherlock yanked John down to join him and the corpse with three fingers hooked into the back of his trousers. "The dusting in his hair isn't plaster at all. It's flour!"

When John leaned forward to check, the hand slid further down into the gap between his back and his jeans. From behind them came the sound of a Detective Inspector clearing his throat. Then he was being hauled back to his feet, literally by the seat of his pants.

Sherlock rounded on Donovan. "Quickly, Donovan! The nearest bakery! Obviously you know where it is," he snapped over her spluttering. "You've loosened your belt by two notches in the past month and you're wearing your fat clothes." John's attempt to sidle away from the inevitable bloodspray was prevented by a leg hooked around his. Not around his ankle, mind you, or even his knee. Sherlock's long damn leg slid right between his thighs and cinched him indecently close. "Stop fidgeting, John. It's a terrible distraction."

At least Donovan was too shocked to commit murder. Lestrade clapped a hand over his mouth and made noises like a tea kettle about to go off.

John sighed, feeling the approach of his doom. "This bakery, does it do a lot of glazes?" Donovan's eyes tracked reluctantly towards him, eyebrows spasming. She nodded a little, clearly against her will. John scrubbed his hands over his face and hefted another sigh into his palms. "I need to develop an addiction to prescription painkillers."

The smirk Sherlock favored him with was more pornographic than the groping. "Now that you mention it, I'd like to see you high."

John wasn't sure which of them broke first, but when he grabbed at Sally's arm, she took off in a sprint for the bakery, with him right on her heels.


End file.
